


Pointless Exercise

by Rococospade



Series: Bloodletter [2]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, POV Outsider, but getting there, not quite friends, unaddressed mental health issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29864835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rococospade/pseuds/Rococospade
Summary: Some nights were worse than others, and sometimes that had nothing to do with beasts and everything to do with worrying the Vicar was going out of his mind and the Holy Blade wasn't doing anything to help.--Alternately, it's hard to help someone who doesn't want helping.
Relationships: Laurence & Ludwig (Bloodborne)
Series: Bloodletter [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174175
Kudos: 9





	Pointless Exercise

**Author's Note:**

> Half outsider POV and half Ludwig POV. Set sometime after Maria's death and Gehrman bounces, but things have not yet gone *entirely* up in flames. The song Laurence is singing is Dies Irae (yes, again), because unfortunately it works very well for him.
> 
> Big thanks to MissMonie for beta-reading and insight on improvements. I wouldn't have posted this at all if it weren't for you.
> 
> Gonna give a heads up that while I rated this as General Audiences with no archive warnings (so very weird for a bloodborne fic), Laurence has issues that don't get addressed, and we don't really get to see what's going on in his head. I... think that's everything? But if there's something I've overlooked please let me know and I'll tag for it.

It was a cold night, and the wind cut right through his clothes and skin down to the heart, but it couldn’t dampen his mood. He had information for the Vicar, and he would deliver it—

He could hear a melody from the Cathedral in the distance, growing louder and louder as he approached. It was a beautiful song, though there was something mournful wrapped up in it. (If he was pressed, he couldn't explain what or why, only that there was.)

At the top of the steps, just outside the entrance, there was a pale shape - cleric’s robes, leather armor, dark hair… and something a little different to the air which left the Harrowed shuddering and looking around. There was something off about the atmosphere of the Cathedral tonight, like a scourge-beast had found its way deep into the city. None of his looking, though, turned up any beasts – just the shape at the top of the stairs. Deciding that was his next item of interest, the Harrowed went nearer; he stalled at the peak when he realized what he was looking at was none other than the Holy Blade, leaned against the door and... to all appearances peacefully asleep. Standing up, in the dead of night.

That was rather strange, even by the standards of Yharnum. (Sure, people slept in all sorts of places, but they were usually... out of the way ones, and the people in question might be better known as _drunks_.) The Harrowed took a step closer, and one of Ludwig’s eyes flickered open; it shined virulent green in the moonlight and focused on the Harrowed.

The disconcerting sensation of being followed by something dangerous, just out of sight, spiked.

Ludwig’s expression was stern and unwavering. The Harrowed had not interacted with him much, but he thought the man usually seemed — _friendlier_.

Without meaning to, the Harrowed took a step backward, down the stairs. That was not the stare you regarded _comrades_ with; it was reserved for prey. The sort of look that sought out strengths and weaknesses, and lined up a shot.

“Good evening,” Ludwig inclined his head. From the gap between the doors, the Harrowed could hear another line of the song begin; achingly beautiful, but in no words he could make sense of. He felt his heart flutter.

“Good evening, Holy Blade.” The Harrowed sketched a bow, and tried to step around the Church Hunter. Ludwig turned his head and the Harrowed froze under his stare.

A chill ran through the Harrowed that had nothing to do with the weather.

Ludwig watched him a moment, then made a little noise and tilted his head. A smile curled his mouth. The moment broke, and the sense that the Harrowed was being watched by something great and terrible abated breath by breath. 

“Did you need something inside, friend?” Ludwig asked, expression relaxing into a passing imitation of friendliness. “Only it’s very late. Perhaps you might return another time?”

The Harrowed did not understand. “It… it is urgent, sir.” He said, and wracked his brain for how the tangled hierarchy dictated he should talk to the Head of the Church Hunters. Ludwig wasn’t _technically_ his commander, so did he need to—?

“Laurence is indisposed,” The Holy Blade cut through his thoughts, with the smile still on his mouth and shards of ice forming in his eyes. “You will return later.”

 _Go, or I will destroy you where you stand._ The threat rang out, unspoken and yet unmistakable. 

The Harrowed took another step back and looked at the hilt of the sword he could just see over the Holy Blade’s shoulder, now wary for a very particular reason. “The Vicar- isn’t that him singing, just now?”

“… _ne perenni cremer igne…”_

Ludwig’s smile slipped away, and his expression went stony. “Singing,” He said, with a pleasantness that was more disturbing to come from such a displeased face, “Does not mean he is taking appointments. I would strongly reconsider the plans for your evening, and I do wish you a good one… well away from here.”

“ _Inter oves locum praesta—”_

The voice that was singing did not crack. But it shifted into something so low and loathsome that the Harrowed almost stumbled to hear it, and Ludwig flinched from it the same way a man did when he was struck with a weapon.

Inside they could hear the Vicar take a sputtering breath, cough, snarl with frustration. Raise his voice up again, and only stumble a little: 

“ _Confutatis maledictis…”_

The Harrowed took another step backward and down, away from the painful song. It was not that the Vicar’s voice was unpleasant — it was hearing the man he was pledged to serve sing with such unabashed _wanting_ that moved something in the Harrowed’s heart, something better left alone to rot.

Ludwig let go of the hilt of his sword, and the Harrowed realized he had not even noticed the man reaching for it. 

“Thank you for your hard work,” Ludwig said, like he hadn’t just threatened the Harrowed off himself. And he leaned back against the door, crossed his arms, and shut his eyes again.

The Harrowed fled from the Cathedral, but for all his trying he could not find anywhere in the ward that the wind did not carry the soft mournful singing to him, odious and detestable. 

“ _Flammis acribus addictis,_ _voca me cum benedictis-_ ”

And he could not scrub the expression of the Holy Blade from his mind, when the Vicar had sung with such loneliness from just inside of the Cathedral. A private part of his mind, one he was well used to ignoring, rebelled at that voice, and clamoured louder and louder with each aching note:

_If it hurts you so badly, why don’t you reach out to him? The way the rest of us can’t?_

(And then there was below that a treasonous thought, the kind the Harrowed was used to burying deep inside of him:  _Unless it doesn't hurt you. Unless you're the cause of-)_

#

It was a bad night.

Well. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t as if the night itself was uniformly bad. The weather was dry (a small miracle in rainy, grey Yharnum). There weren’t so many beasts, tonight; the hunters were an effective repellent, and the number of afflicted dwindled. And yet, it was…

Well, the Cathedral Ward was peaceful. But in the Grand Cathedral, it was a dreadful eve, and no one there could mistake it for anything else. 

The song from the sanctuary was high and chiming and lyrical, and for all of these qualities it was also heartrending; a single voice raised in a melody that wanted for others.

Ludwig pressed his back to the wall, and he tried to shut his heart, and he kept watch. It was all he could do. The song called out to him, but it was not _for_ him. If he could only offer—

But of course he couldn’t. And the Vicar would not thank him, if Ludwig were to go inside and try to give him any measure of comfort. Trying was a pointless exercise, and one he did not want to repeat tonight. So he stayed at the doors and pretended that he couldn’t hear Laurence’s voice swell and crack, the soft intake of breath before tears, nothing about any of it. No, Ludwig did not know a thing.

… listening to it made him feel a little sick. What was the point, he wondered? What was the point in promising to protect someone who would in the end never let you protect them?

(Was this even something that could be protected from?)

It wasn’t a beast he could fight, and it wasn’t a fear he could soothe away. And Laurence was not a child — was older than Ludwig, even, and made a point to complain about it when he was not— this. He could do no more for it than what he was.

Ludwig chafed at inactivity; this vigil was no more than a palliative for himself. It was… frustrating.

He hadn’t been able to help Maria. He hadn’t been able to help Gehrman. He couldn’t help Laurence. It was a sorry lot, to be certain, and worse because he—

— goodness. He was getting fatalistic, wasn’t he?

He _could_ protect Laurence. (Sometimes. When the Vicar let him.) And though he felt low now — he was still doing something. The singing started to die down, a little, and the melody shifted. 

Ludwig let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and pushed himself off the doors.

Inside Laurence was still singing, lost and alone and soft in a way that the daylight managed to conceal from the world. Now it was not to the moon or the empty hall, but to himself, quiet and small, a snippet from an old poem that Ludwig only recollected because it was penned down on a worn page, hidden among his possessions, and taken out for examination once in a rare while.

Breathless, and edging toward hoarseness, his hands folded around an amulet, Laurence murmured:

“ _The moon is set, and the Pleiades._

_Hours pass, but I sleep alone…”_

Ludwig smiled, though it wasn’t from happiness. He took a few steps closer to the Sanctuary, rubbed a hand over his throat. Spoke, because he couldn’t sing the verse, but it would have some power anyway. If only the flicking of a candle beside a roaring flame. (A light in the dark was still a light, wasn’t it? )

“ _Again love, the limb-loosener, rattles me,_

_bittersweet,_

_irresistible,_

_a crawling beast.”_

His voice carried further in the Cathedral than he really wished for, and – Laurence’s back went stiff.

Ludwig padded closer, to crouch just out of reach.

The Vicar twisted on the floor and stared daggers at him, expression twisting in accusation, a hand going to his threaded cane and the other toward his face like he could cover the tear-tracks with his fingers and undo Ludwig having seen them. (It was a pointless task. Ludwig had seen him cry, before; did not think he could forget the sight, even if time robbed him of every other memory.) 

“Ludwig,” Laurence greeted, as cold as the night sky, and scrubbed his sleeve indiscreetly at his eyes. “How long have you been there?”

 _What did you hear,_ he did not say, but meant very clearly. 

Ludwig smiled in a way that he knew made him look guileless, and offered Laurence his hand. “Here? Just now, of course. I heard you singing that old verse again, and I wished for nothing more than to join you… I hope you don’t mind?”

Laurence stared at his fingers, baleful, before letting his ember-light eyes flicker back to Ludwig’s face. “Using your silver tongue to lie to me, again.”

Ludwig continued to smile. “I am certain I do not know what you mean. Ah, but don’t you think it’s time to turn in for the night?”

Laurence’s expression shifted a moment toward something dark. He rasped, “Don’t patronize me.” And rose from the floor.

Ludwig stayed crouching and looked up at the Vicar, who held himself with the loftiness of someone who glided instead of walked, and who spoke to gods as well as men.

And Ludwig smiled a little, because he was helpless not to, because an hour prior he’d been so afraid and now he could barely recollect why he had worried.

Laurence was fine, once he collected himself. Laurence was always fine. It was only that he needed time. 

Laurence’s severe look softened, just a little, maybe because it was hard to keep a frown when someone smiled at you like you were the world to them. 

(To be perfectly clear, Laurence wasn’t the world to Ludwig. But sometimes the unaffected mask broke, and Laurence exemplified what made it worthwhile for Ludwig, and that was—) 

Laurence’s eyes slid away from him, and a frown curled his lips. He brought up a hand and laid it on Ludwig’s crown to grant him a single, awkward pat. “I’m being cruel. Aren’t I.”

(It was a little like magic, like cupping his hands together and making a flame without more than a thought.)

“It’s been a long night.” Ludwig demurred, careful not to move. “I would forget everything of it but your lovely song.”

Laurence let out a low sigh, like he’d heard something exasperating, but Ludwig caught Laurence's lips twitching like he was trying to push down a smile. “Are you asking me to sing again? Really, you haven’t heard enough?”

“I have barely heard anything.” Ludwig insisted. As far as lies went, it was pretty transparent; the benefit was that it was vague enough to argue he hadn't _actually_ lied if Laurence managed to conjure up any evidence. (Say, that Harrowed that had come around... and would by now be occupied far, far away if he had any sense in his empty head. A spy that couldn't read the atmosphere was perfectly useless.) 

Laurence gave him a sharp look. “You were outside the whole night again, weren’t you.”

… Ah. Caught. Of course, there was the possibility of Laurence dispensing with evidence at all and just... announcing things. Right. Ludwig smiled anyway and tilted his head under Laurence’s fingers, unrepentant. Someone had to keep watch; Laurence could not guard himself, not while he was weeping.

“You are a ridiculous creature.” Laurence muttered, then drew his hand away. “Very well. Stand.”

“Hmm?” Ludwig pushed himself back to his feet.

Laurence rolled his eyes and looked away, and held out his arm like he was doing Ludwig a great kindness by offering it. “You are going to escort me to my apartments, and I shall sing you a song before you depart for the evening. Is that sufficient?”

“Only if the song is something happier,” Ludwig tipped his head to the side, pleased to have won the argument they weren't quite having. “I’m not sure my heart can take any more of your tears.”

Laurence’s cheeks darkened. “… when you say things like that — _Oh._ I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Ludwig took the Vicar’s arm and grinned down at him. “If it does not matter, you have no reason not to do it. Isn’t that so?”

Laurence rolled his eyes and stalked for the doors.

Laughing a little — trying not to let his heart hurt — Ludwig kept pace with him. His sword thrummed against his back, a comfortable companion, and he tried to cling to the warmth of Laurence’s fingers gripping his sleeve, and the feeling of having his friend close and alive and — if not happy.

Well. If Laurence was only content. That could improve the night for him by a great deal. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Laurence muttered, halfway across the ward. Then, “Stop it.”

Ludwig blinked at him, checked the street for eavesdroppers, and considered whether he wanted to risk being gutted tonight. He thought maybe it was cold enough to save him, so, he lowered his voice and risked it. “I was worried about you.”

Laurence's eyes flickered between the road ahead of them and Ludwig's, glittered like fire, rolled. He turned his face away. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm the last person you need to worry about. And I'm not going anywhere.”

“... besides your apartments, of course.”

Laurence gave him a slightly softer look. “Of course. Besides the apartments. So try and rest easy, hm?”

Ludwig exhaled, tightened his grip on Laurence's arm, and managed to relax for the first time since waking that evening. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> The specific section of All The Stars that inspired this mess:  
> "Love, let's talk about love  
> Is it anything and everything you hoped for?  
> Or do the feeling haunt you?  
> I know the feeling haunt you"
> 
> The poem fragments recited in the chapter are both from Sappho's surviving works.
> 
> I am wholeheartedly convinced there were some really weird and inaccurate rumors bouncing around the Cathedral Ward after this. Equally sure Ludwig was horrified and Laurence was like "What did you expect when you play guard like you do? Honestly."
> 
> This was written as a direct consequence of that cut dialogue with Gehrman saying farewell to Laurence (and, presumably Yharnum). We got more emotion in that scene than the one with Willem and that stuck in my head pretty badly, and this spilled out when Kendrick Lamar and SZA's "All The Stars" came on. Like, Laurence agrees to Gehrman leaving, but whoo boy he doesn't sound happy about it... so I wondered when exactly that gets dealt with. Then realized that, at least with how I write Laurence, it doesn't really get dealt with. He goes down to the Cathedral, has a nice breakdown, then lies through his teeth about it to any witnesses.


End file.
